


call it the season of giving

by madanach



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, Fluff, Footy Secret Santa, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3069137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This conversation is what I’m basing my opinion of you on, just to let you know,” Mario says. “Marco, the guy I met in a train station who unironically says the word <i>hella</i>.”</p><p>Written for the Footy Secret Santa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it the season of giving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tmrs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmrs/gifts).



> MERRY BELATED CHRISTMAS TAMY!!! i mean greetings, friend and gift recipient who i have absolutely never met before. i'm late as hell, sorry, but i hope you like your fic anyway <3
> 
> disclaimer: i own neither of these boys, and i've never been to essen, so i'm pretending that a) the train station there looks exactly like the hauptbahnhof in bremen and b) that actual germans spend as much time waiting on train station floors as i did when i was on exchange
> 
> also i'm just assuming a weihnachtsmarkt would still be open at 2am but hey if not you can act like either of them are smart enough to rob food carts in the cold on christmas
> 
> prompt: fluff, getting stuck together on christmas eve

So, in retrospect, taking a late-night train back to Dortmund on Christmas Eve may not have been the best idea.

In his defense, there were a significant amount of people who had made the same mistake; as the announcement saying their train had been canceled winds down, the platform full of travelers murmurs grumpily. The old woman beside Mario shakes her head sadly. Mario sighs, watching his breath puff out in the chilly air, and curses whoever created the German train system.

“Fuck,” someone says audibly behind him.

The old woman turns around and raises an eyebrow; the speaker, turning red, shifts uncomfortably and looks away.

Mario makes a split-second decision and walks over to him.

“Hi, fellow strandee,” he says, sticking out his hand.

The guy — blond, tall, probably around his age, fashion sense somewhere between _let’s get shots_ and _don’t talk to me_ — looks startled, but shakes his hand automatically. “That’s not a word,” he says. “Marco.”

“Mario. The German language is malleable.” He looks down at the duffel bag at Marco’s feet, the suitcase next to him. “You need help getting that inside?”

Marco narrows his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to flirt or about to steal my shit.”

“Dude, It’s Christmas Eve,” Mario says, although he can feel himself smiling delightedly. “I’m being a friendly person.”

Marco eyes him a moment longer and then shrugs. “Eh, I could outrun you.”

Mario ignores that comment, picks up his duffel bag and waits until Marco’s walking next to him to head into the station. “You looked cold. Train’s not gonna come that quick.”

“Yeah,” Marco says, “When is it gonna come?”

Mario shrugs. “You heard the announcement.” He groans, lifting Marco’s duffel over his shoulder as he reaches the bottom of the stairs; Marco laughs, snatches it from him and puts it back on top of his rolling luggage. 

“That bag’s too big for you,” he says conversationally.

“I managed it quite well, thank you very much,” Mario says primly. “You’re welcome.”

Marco snorts, but grins at Mario when he looks over. He steers them into an empty bakery, the only store in the row under the station still lit up, and hauls his stuff into a booth.

“I’ll go check the train times,” Marco says as Mario throws his backpack across the seat.

“Weren’t you worried I was going to steal your shit, like, three minutes ago?” Mario asks.

Marco grins, calls as he’s leaving the bakery, “I play football, you wouldn’t get very far!”

“You play _football_ ,” Mario starts, but he’s already out of hearing distance. He sighs, sits down.

If he has to spend Christmas Eve in a train station — and if he knows anything about Deutsche Bahn, that’s what’s about to happen — at least he won’t be friendless. Casual acquaintance-less. Dude-he-met-on-a-train-platform-less.

Well, he won’t be alone.

He pulls out his phone and dials his house, but, predictably, no one answers. “Hey guys,” he tells his mother’s robotic voice on the answering machine, “Train’s stopped, not sure when it’ll start up again but I’m stuck in Essen for the time being. I’ll call you again when I know what’s going on. Love you,” he says, just as Marco walks back into the bakery, looking significantly grumpier.

“And?” Mario says.

Marco rolls his eyes, sliding into the booth next to Mario. “Storm damage, which is bullshit, because it’s not even snowing outside. Earliest they can promise is quarter past five.”

“In the morning,” Mario states. 

Marco lets his head fall back against the seat. “What are we supposed to do for seven hours?” he says.

“On _Christmas_ ,” Mario says, scandalized. “Nothing’s open.”

“We could starve to death,” Marco offers.

“We’re sitting in a bakery,” Mario says.

“We could starve to death.”

“Loving the Christmas cheer,” Mario says. “Really lightening the spirit.”

Marco shoots him a glare, but can’t keep it up and starts smiling halfway through, turning his face away to hide the grin. Mario thinks idly that he’s pretty cute when he smiles and then hastily stifles the thought.

“Football?” he asks, when Marco’s gotten his grin under control.

“Yeah,” Marco says. “Gladbach. Reserve team, right now.”

“Dude,” Mario says, impressed despite himself. “Should I be asking for your autograph or something? Could I sell it and make bank?”

“If I was that valuable I wouldn’t be taking the train home for Christmas,” Marco says. “I’d be driving home in a Mercedes, because I’d be hella rich.” 

“Don’t say hella,” Mario says. “That’s terrible. Get a Porsche or something.”

“I would get both,” Marco says, kicking his feet up on the other side of the booth. “‘Cause I’d be hella rich.”

“This conversation is what I’m basing my opinion of you on, just to let you know,” Mario says. “Marco, the guy I met in a train station who unironically says the word _hella_.”

“This is coming from ‘strandee’,” Marco says. “Do you say hella ironically?”

“No,” Mario says, just as Marco says, “Hipster piece of shit.”

Mario laughs so hard he almost chokes, leaning over the table to catch his breath; Marco rubs a hand across his back until he can speak again, looking incredibly satisfied with himself.

“Fuck,” Mario says, grinning as he falls back against the seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Marco’s head loll his way, catches a glint of teeth behind a smirk before he can control his expression again.

 

Marco’s easy to talk to, Mario learns — taunting, but in a way with no bite, like he’s testing the waters, and has a sense of humor that’s hilariously easy to exploit — and they find themselves talking longer than either of them had thought, first about football and then school, what Marco had of it before he dedicated himself to athletics and what Mario has now, fresh off a semester at uni.

“What do you study?” Marco asks him, unable to prevent a hint of curiousity from creeping into his voice.

“Math,” Mario says. “Science, a little bit. Math focus, though.”

Marco stares at him.

“What,” Mario says.

“That sounds so dull,” Marco says. “Like, so incredibly,” and Mario elbows him but he keeps going, “So incredibly boring, oh my God, how do you live?”

“Listen,” Mario says, “Just because you’re not smart enough to keep up with it—“

“Excuse me,” Marco says, “I am very smart—“

“Doesn’t _mean_ ,” Mario says loudly, “That it’s not a totally valid area of study.”

Marco waits a moment, and then says, “Okay, but also, what are you gonna do with a math degree, dude?”

“You kick balls for a living,” Mario says, “You don’t get a say in this.”

Marco cackles, and then says, “Oh, look at the math major resorting to sex jokes to win his argument!”

“I won, didn’t I,” Mario says, mimicking Marco’s smugness, and Marco turns his face to the side, smiles in the other direction.

 

Mario eventually excuses himself to call his family again, apologizing for being late while his phone beeps at him for low battery.

“There’s an outlet in the hallway,” Mario says when he comes back, Marco looking up from his own phone. “I need to go sit out there and charge my phone. You can stay here,” he continues awkwardly when Marco moves to pick up his own bags.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Marco says. “I don’t mind. Really,” he says when Mario looks skeptical. “Better out there with you than in here alone.”

Mario smiles and takes Marco’s other bag out of his hand, hauling it out of the restaurant. “You have so much shit,” he comments, dropping it against the wall as they reach the end of the hallway.

“I haven’t been back home in a while,” Marco says, shrugging. “Practice takes up all of my time.” He perches on his suitcase while Mario sits cross-legged by the outlet, flipping through his text messages — none new — before smiling up wryly at Marco.

“Does that suck?” he asks. 

“Eh,” Marco says. “I love football. It’s nice to see family, though.”

“Yeah,” Mario says. “Sorry that you missed Christmas.”

“Not your fault,” Marco says. Mario feels satisfied when the corner of his mouth twists up. 

 

He fools around on his phone as Marco hides his face in his collar, jiggling his leg restlessly — maybe that’s a football thing — but when he clicks on the Maps app on a whim, he notices something interesting.

“The Christmas market is near us,” Mario says. He’s surprised — he’s never been here before, but normally they’re closer to the city center, and he got the impression that the train station was pretty far out.

“Really?” asks Marco. He leans over to try to get a look at Mario’s phone so Mario flips it up to show him, middle finger vaguely pointing at the red dot on the map. “I missed the one last year. Food poisoning.”

“Gross,” Mario says. “You want to go?”

Marco looks up incredulously. “I’ve got so much shit, though.”

Mario shrugs. “There are probably lockers here.”

“It’s snowing.”

“Adds to the atmosphere.”

“It’s freezing.”

“It’s _winter_.”

“Mario—“

“Come on,” Mario laughs. “Why do you hate joy?”

“I—” Marco says, “Hey, rude. Let’s go, then.”

Mario grins and jumps up, holding his hand out triumphantly. Marco takes it with a groan, hauls himself up, and Mario is struck again by how much taller Marco is than him — Marco smirks at him for a moment before leaning down to grab his bag. Mario gets the other, as before, and heads off in the direction marked _Lockers_ with Marco following close behind. 

 

They barely manage to cram their stuff into one locker — a big one, but shared between the two for money’s sake — and Mario wraps himself up snugly before even considering the thought of venturing outside. Marco, determined to be contrary, assures Mario that he’ll be fine in a leather jacket and a hoodie, which in Mario’s humble opinion is the reserve-team-football-player version of wearing sunglasses indoors.

“There’s gonna be no one there,” Marco warns as they walk outside into the chilly air, hands in his pockets.

“Sense of adventure,” Mario reminds him. He hopes silently that they’ll at least still be selling something warm to drink, and he buries his face in his scarf as they trail through the quiet city streets, following the red dot on his phone. 

They know they’ve found it from the smells. First pretzels, warm and fresh; crepes, Mario’s favorite lemon ones and the chocolate and banana that Marco says he likes; lingering smell of bratwurst from where it must have been sizzling earlier in the night; French fries; roasted nuts; candy and chocolate-covered fruit. 

Marco turns his nose into the wind appreciatively. Mario moans out loud.

“This was a good idea,” he says as they turn into the market.

It’s not as fruitful as the scents would promise, and their budget confines them to a cup of Glühwein each and a crepe the size of their heads, but Marco tugs Mario over to a bench and they sit hidden from the wind as Marco downs his wine faster than he should and Mario treads increasingly close to Marco’s side of the crepe.

“You’re letting it get cold,” Mario says. “I’m giving it the respect it deserves.”

“It’s a crepe,” Marco says incredulously. “I’m saving it!”

“No, you’re letting it get _cold_ ,” Mario mutters.

“Whatever,” Marco says, cutting an obscenely small piece of the crepe and chewing it for significantly longer than necessary.

“You tool,” Mario says, “Just eat the crepe.”

Marco wrinkles his nose and shivers.

“See,” Mario says. “It’s cold. Serves you right.”

“No,” Marco says, “But it’s snowing.”

Mario looks up. Sure enough, little flakes are spiraling down, catching the light. One lands on Mario’s nose and makes him sneeze; when he blinks, Marco is smiling at him with an expression he can’t quite place.

“What?” Mario asks.

Marco stares at him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Your face is all red and cute.”

Mario takes a sip of his wine, blames it for the warmth spreading through his chest.

 

The cold bites its way through their clothing as they walk back to the train station, and Mario misses the heat of the mug in his hands. Marco’s shivering, trying stubbornly not to show it, and Mario steals glances at the way his breath condenses in the air as they get closer to the light.

“Warmth,” Marco coos as they enter. Privately, Mario thinks his standards are pretty low — it’s drafty, his hair still fluttering from whatever sneaks in from outside — but it’s better than the snow by any rate, and he follows Marco blindly into the locker room before he realizes they still have a while to go.

“Wait,” he says before Marco can take out the key.

“Mm,” Marco says, in a way that could be interpreted as a question.

“We’ve still got time. I think.”

Marco blinks at him, then digs his phone out of his pocket; Mario watches his fingers type out a passcode, slowed by wine and exhaustion.

“Fuck,” Marco says. “Two in the morning.”

“Three hours,” Mario says despairingly, feeling sleep weigh down his eyelids. Marco, with significantly less reservation to confront the same issue, makes a beeline for a corner and sits down.

“There are chairs,” Mario says, waving his hand vaguely.

Marco hums, pulls his jacket tighter around him and curls closer to the wall.

 _Worth a shot,_ Mario thinks, and resigns himself to his fate, which seems to include grimy train station floors and backaches.

He plops down next to Marco, attempts to get comfortable, and ends up with his head in Marco’s lap.

Figures.

Marco doesn’t seem to mind, pushes a hand up against Mario’s cheek — Mario says “Ow,” and then, “Your leg is bony.”

“Jesus slept in a manger,” Marco mumbles. “Deal with it.”

Mario giggles, noticing the way the movement lifts his back up from the cold linoleum underneath him, and Marco splays his hand over Mario’s mouth until he quiets.

Marco falls asleep with his fingers still brushing Mario’s lips. Mario thinks he should have had more wine. 

 

Mario’s alarm wakes them up ten minutes before their train leaves.

“Augh,” Marco says.

“What,” Mario says, and then, “That’s my phone.”

“What time is it?”

“Shit,” Mario says loudly, and scrambles upright. “We gotta go, we gotta go, we gotta go,” he says, offering Marco his hand; Marco, blinking blearily, takes it and pulls himself up.

“What time is it,” Marco repeats as Mario runs over to their locker. 

“Too late for you to be talking,” Mario says, and then remembers he doesn’t have the key. “Get your shit, Marco!” 

Marco makes a face but stumbles over, obviously still half-asleep. Mario taps his foot impatiently as he fumbles with the lock.

“If we miss the train I’m going to cry,” Marco says, hauling out his suitcase. “They have cushioned seats.”

Mario hums happily at the thought, pulls on his backpack and picks up Marco’s duffel. “Better run, football boy.”

“Is that a fucking challenge,” Marco says, and Mario would have sworn on his family name that Marco was going to pass out at any moment but for some reason he starts _running_ , like a _maniac_ , and then Mario’s feet are moving and he’s running behind him and Jesus Christ, he’s known this guy a day.

“I hate you,” Mario calls. Marco laughs brightly, and Mario imagines his grin.

They make it to their platform with a minute to spare, and Marco hauls his suitcase up the stairs without using the handle, making a racket absolutely inexcusable for five in the morning. Mario winces every time the plastic wheels hit the concrete, glares at him when he gets to the train door.

“Something wrong?” Marco says.

“Inside,” Mario says, gets a hand on the small of his back and shoves him forward. Marco cackles.

The train is warm and clean; Marco raises his hands in mock prayer and then drags his suitcase up the last couple of stairs to get to the top level. Mario follows him, throws his stuff next to Marco’s on one side of a four-person table top and slides in next to him. 

He’s glad the train is almost empty, although it’s not surprising for 5 in the morning on Christmas Day. Marco kicks his feet up like he did in the bakery, and Mario reaches across the table to fish out his iPod. He offers Marco an earbud and is somehow still a little surprised when Marco takes it.

“Can I pick the music?” Marco asks.

“Sure,” Mario says, immediately regretting it when he hands the iPod over and Baby starts playing the second Marco hits shuffle.

“Oh God,” Mario says, burying his head in his hands.

“And you’ve got a playlist titled JB?”

“Do not,” Mario says.

“That’s a lot of Bieber,” Marco says.

Mario winces, eyes Marco warily, but Marco just switches it to Never Say Never instead of Baby and sits back. Mario stares.

“You’re not going to take the piss out of me for it?”

“Why,” Marco asks, “Should I?”

Mario gapes at him for another second, then shakes his head incredulously. “I should have met you, like, a million years ago.”

Marco laughs and settles in, watching the country roll by the cloudy window, and Mario swears he can see red creep up high on his cheek.

 

They eventually arrive in Dortmund, seven hours late but all in one piece, as it seems. The train empties with a grateful sigh and Mario helps Marco haul his shit out to the bus loop, then takes a minute to call Fabian for a ride. He’s glad Mario’s alive, but that’s the most that can be said for being woken up at 6:30 in the morning on Christmas

“You got a ride?” Marco says when Mario jogs back.

“Yeah,” Mario says, “My brother’s coming. Not happy about it, but he’ll live.”

“Good,” Marco says, rubbing his hands together for warmth. Mario grins as his nose gets pinker.

“You’ll freeze one day,” he says, burrowing his face into his own scarf. Marco sticks out his tongue, but his eyes catch on something behind Mario and follow it.

“What?” Mario says.

“My bus is here,” Marco says on a sigh.

“Oh,” Mario says. Suddenly, stupidly, he realizes they have to say goodbye. 

 _It’s been seven hours_ , he reminds himself. _Get it together_.

“Do you have a pen?” Marco says hurriedly.

“What?” Mario says, and then, “Backpack, yeah, I think.”

Marco darts around him, messes with the zippers on his backpack, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _I hate uni students_ before settling on whatever satisfies him.

He finds Mario’s hand, tears off his glove and writes something on his palm in large, slanting blue letters, then shoves the Expo marker into Mario’s chest, pulls him into a hug, kisses the top of his head, grabs his shit off the ground and runs in the other direction. 

“What,” Mario says, dumbstruck.

Marco laughs, loud and bright, and before he disappears into the bus, Mario catches a glimpse of his grin.

Mario looks down at the number on his hand, smiling so wide it hurts.

 

[12/24, 06:43] Mario Götze: Next time, kiss me properly

[12/24, 06:44] Marco R: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[12/24, 06:44] Marco R: next time

[12/24, 06:45] Mario Götze: :*

**Author's Note:**

> the emojis didn't work this is SO TRAGIC


End file.
